


An Afternoon in Oxford

by raskin



Series: Out of Whitechapel [1]
Category: Lewis (TV), Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Beginnings, Comfort/Angst, First Impressions, First Kiss, First Meetings, Getting Over a Crush, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, M/M, No Sex, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1448470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raskin/pseuds/raskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emerson Kent abruptly asks for a few days off and heads out of London.  He has to get away from Whitechapel.  He has to work free of his feelings for D.I. Joseph Chandler, which are obviously not returned or even recognized.  </p><p>He ends up taking a train to Oxford, where he meets a local D.S. at a pub.  James Hathaway is in some ways similar to his boss, but soon Kent stops comparing the men.  In fact, the more he gets to know Hathaway, the less he finds himself thinking about Chandler at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Kent ended up in Oxford. He’d had a thought go to all the way to Swansea – he’d never been there before, as good a reason as any to make the trek – but missed the train by five minutes. He didn’t feel like waiting another three hours for the next through train to the far west, and the one for Oxford was leaving within minutes, so that’s the one he boarded. 

There was nothing in the university town that he particularly wanted to see or do. He wasn’t much of a tourist; not a history buff or student of architecture. The simple truth was that it didn’t matter where he went, as long as he got out of London. Away from Whitechapel.

He walked around the city a while, but mostly stared down at the pavement, both hands clutching the wide strap of the satchel across his chest. The whole change-of-scenery idea just wasn’t working. All he could think about was Chandler, and the expression on his face when he left the station with that woman last night.

Checking for traffic at an intersection, he spotted a pub across the street. Its façade was brightly white-washed, with mullion windows, and flower baskets hanging on either side of the wide, green door. There were a million pubs in the city, and this one was probably nothing special. But it was here, and had alcohol.

It also had a back courtyard. More flowers in planters, high brick walls around the perimeter, picnic tables. Plenty of sunlight yet.

He went to the first table and settled onto a bench facing south, letting the sun blind him. It might warm his glass of Riesling before he could drink it, but the rays felt good on his face. To his right, three grad student types were huddled together in the shadow of the west wall, talking quietly. The only other patron was a man across the way, sitting with his back to the courtyard.

Kent realized then that if he were hoping for a distraction, he’d come to the wrong place. He would have eavesdropped on the conversation of the trio of scholars, but he couldn’t make out a word. And the man at the back, who hadn’t moved since Kent arrived, just made him think of Chandler; he had the same gold-blond hair and was wearing the same sort of dark, tailored suit.

Just then the man did move, swinging his chair around and stretching out long legs. He leaned his head back and let his arms hang down. He was loose-limbed. Gangly. His profile revealed a bony face, with a long jaw and thin, pursed lips. 

He looked nothing like Chandler. 

After studying him for some time, Kent found that he envied the man, the way he seemed completely relaxed, just whiling away the day, soaking up the sun. He couldn’t imagine himself sprawling in a chair like that, peaceful and content. He hadn't been at peace since Chandler arrived in Whitechapel.

As if aware of the scrutiny, the man slowly turned squinting eyes in his direction. One corner of his mouth rose slightly before he turned back to the sun and closed his eyes again.

Well, that was a bit of embarrassing, Kent thought, ducking his head. But what did it matter? Just a stranger, someone he’d never see again. With a sigh, he picked up his wine glass. It was warm, and the wine way too sweet now. But he sipped it anyway. What was just one more trifling disappointment, compared to the much larger one he faced every day at work. Chandler not noticing him, or noticing but not caring.

When he looked up again, the man was gone. Kent hadn’t even caught him walking past. So much for his observational skills. So much for maintaining a keen awareness of his surroundings. Yeah, some copper he was. He hung his head again.

“It’s more refreshing when cold,” came a deep voice. Thoroughly startled, Kent looked up at a dark figure before him, silhouetted by the sun. Then a fresh glass of wine was set before him, and the blond man was taking a seat on the other side of the table. He raised his pint and tipped it in Kent’s direction. “Cheers.”

Kent hesitated, bewildered. It was unexpected and weird, but what could he do? Politely decline the drink? Stand up and head for the exit? This guy wasn't Kent's type by a long shot, and anyway he hadn't come here looking for a hook-up.

With those perfectly reasonable options to chose from, why did he take up the fresh glass and return the gesture? “Cheers…,” he said rather lamely, and raised his glass. Only after he’d gulped down a mouthful of the stuff – which was undeniably more refreshing than the one he’d been nursing – did it occur to him that it could be spiked. He ought to know better than to accept a drink from a total stranger, for fuck’s sake.

Some copper he was.

“Don’t worry. It’s quite safe,” the man said in posh drawl. “They know me here. I wouldn’t risk being seen carrying a half-conscious young man out the front door.”

Kent wished he could make a cheeky comeback, or crack a cynical smile. Instead, he just stared into the man’s hooded eyes. Aware that his own eyes were probably wide, like a deer in the headlights, he looked down, blinked a few times, picked up the glass again and took another mouthful. 

“Right,” the man was saying, “now for the introductions. I’m James Hathaway.”

Kent fingered the stem of the wine glass. The man’s voice was deep, thick, nasal. Strangely seductive. 

Up close, he looked even lankier than on first impression. The sun at his back only highlighted how his ears stuck out. As did his short-cropped hair, in all directions. This homeliness was in distinct contrast to the haughty set of his mouth and the wearily arrogant tone of his voice. Funny how appealing the man was, in spite of it all.

Hathaway was saying, with exaggerated patience, “Here’s where you tell me your name.”

“Kent,” he sort of blurted out.

This was rewarded with a half smile. “Kent what?”

“Oh. Uhm, Emerson Kent. Kent is my surname. That’s what they call me at –” He broke off, unsure of how much information to share. What the hell was he doing? How were these things supposed to go?

Hathaway sighed into the awkward silence. “I could leave, if you wish.” He made no move to stand. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather wallet and tossed it across the table. “Though it may not necessarily reassure you,…” 

Kent recognized it immediately. He had one himself, after all. A warrant card. He did smile then, and felt some tension slip away. He fingered the leather for a moment, then opened it up and studied the contents. Detective Superintendent, Oxford CID. 

“Committing my number to memory, just in case?” It was said with friendly sarcasm.

“Something like that, yes.” Kent reached into his jacket and pulled his own from the inside pocket, then slid both of them across the table. “And you’re welcome to do the same.”

Now it was Hathaway who was surprised. His brow raised slightly, and his lips formed a small, lopsided grin. He cleared his throat. “Well,.. That’s…”

“Reassuring? Or a total turn-off?” He couldn't believe he'd just said that. Christ. Feeling a blush creep over his cheeks, he quickly snatched up his glass and tipped it towards Hathaway. 

Hathaway gave a low laugh and raised his glass. “Welcome to Oxford.”

“Glad to be here.” And he was, judging by the growing warmth of his cheeks.

While the sun worked across the courtyard, the two sat, exchanging information and sharing stories of their precincts. The topic turned to the city of Oxford. Thanks to his new drinking companion, Kent found that he actually was rather interested in its history, its architecture, its culture. Then Hathaway said, "It's remarkably different from Cambridge."

"Oh?" said Kent, after a pause.

Hathaway's look became wary. "It's where I grew up. And did university."

"You attended Cambridge." Kent cursed himself for letting it sound like an accusation.

It didn't escape Hathaway's notice. His head tilted minutely, as if daring Kent to make an issue of it. So far they'd managed to keep the conversation on the things they had in common, but it was inevitable that the obvious differences in their social class and education would come up. Now Hathaway's expression seemed to ask if he was expected to apologize for his background. And if Kent was ashamed of his.

Kent stared at his empty glass. Was it an issue? The man across the table was so far proving himself easy to talk to, curious about everything and a good listener. If elitism entered into it, it would be Kent's doing, not Hathaway's. He gave himself a mental kick to the shins, and said, "I've heard good things about both of their music scenes. I'd like to hear what you think, when I get back." He swept up their glasses and headed into the bar for another round.

Indeed, they shared an interest in music, and that kept the conversation going easily until the sun was well on its way to the horizon. The courtyard was now illuminated by fairy lights and warm sconces on all sides. In the new lighting scheme, he was able to make out the grey in Hathaway’s blue eyes. It occurred to him that those eyes would no doubt look quite cold and steely to a suspect in the interview room. He wondered what D.S. Hathaway was like on the job. He also wondered what those eyes would look like when Hathaway was aroused...

Kent realized that he'd completely revised his first impressions of the man. Not homely, or gangly, or arrogant. None of those adjectives was remotely suitable. Hathaway was altogether a very attractive man, witty and humble and easy to talk to.

Plus, Kent had to admit that he was finding Hathaway's long lean frame and heavy-lidded eyes pretty damned hot.

Breaking into his thoughts, Hathaway said, "So, uhm,... are you going back to London tonight? Or…” His long fingers fidgeted, twirling his glass. It wasn’t a totally offhand question.

“I don’t have to,” Kent said slowly. He didn't look away when Hathaway met his gaze. “I haven’t really decided.”

What would it mean if he stayed? What were the implications? The risks? Where would they end up?

Fuck it, he didn't want this to end, whatever this was. And he wasn't going to rule out any scenario just yet. His heart was thudding; he was nervous and scared and excited. Hopelessly drawn to this man, he wasn’t about to just fanny back home to London, not if Hathaway gave him the littlest bit of encouragement. 

For a long moment the two men sat looking at each other, considering. Deciding. Waiting. 

“Stay,” Hathaway said finally, in a low, thick voice. 

If Kent’s reply was slow in coming, it was not due to indecision. Of course he was staying. Hell yeah, he was. It was just that he couldn’t believe this was happening. All he could finally manage was a quick nod, his eyes still locked onto Hathaway’s.

The next instant they were rising, pushing back their benches, straightening their jackets. Kent grabbed his satchel and followed Hathaway through the pub and out to the car park.


	2. Chapter 2

“Chat up someone random,” Lewis had challenged him at lunch that day, before heading off on holiday. “Not someone here at the station, not someone you meet on a course, not a librarian who helps you with some research. When you’re on the beach, or in a seaside pub, just pick someone out and introduce yourself.”

Hathaway understood the subtext. Lewis was making it clear that there was no, nor would there ever be, anything beyond the close friendship they’d developed over the years. Profound friendship, even. But intimacy, no. Move on, Lewis was saying.

Not that Hathaway needed reminding. When they’d both put in for leave three weeks ago, Hathaway had dared believe that they would be going away together. A few days to find out if there was anything between them. He’d made up a few itineraries, and prepared to ask Lewis if he would like to go on a wine tour in Alsace, or perhaps prefer a smart city pension in the heart of Utrecht. 

The next morning, before he could bring up the subject, Lewis announced that on his time off, he would be visiting his daughter up north. He said it while shuffling some papers, casual and by-the-way. But Hathaway knew every line of his D.I.’s face, every expression that his features took on. This particular one, not in the least way insignificant, said that their love lives were separate and should remain that way. No shared holidays. No shared hotel rooms. No shared love.

He wanted Lewis to be happy, yes, but wanted to be the one to make him happy. Lewis knew this, and was gently letting him know that it was not to be.

Now, sitting here in the courtyard of the pub, long after Lewis had gone, Hathaway knew that the older man had it right. Their lives would never weave together the way Hathaway wanted. It wasn’t the twenty-odd years between their ages, or the myriad other of their differences. It was just, well, that they would make a crap couple. They both needed the same thing: someone to cherish. Someone to remind them of beauty. Someone who needed and accepted their love.

Neither he nor Lewis was suited to play that role; neither could fulfill the other’s need. 

Hathaway knew the dynamic. Lover/Beloved. Classic Plato. He even had a copy of _The Phaedra_ in the original Greek, which he’d always intended to tackle when he had time. Now, with the next few days off work, he had time. It wasn’t beach reading, no. Not the light entertainment Lewis had encouraged him to enjoy while away, but…

The late-June sun on the side of his face felt great. He hadn’t just sat soaking it in for as long as he could remember. His glass was empty and his stomach felt a bit sour from the liquid lunch, but he couldn’t quite get himself to leave the warmth of the rays. 

He turned his chair to face the sun, lounged back, let his arms drop towards the ground. He felt light and untethered, now that he’d finally let go of Lewis.

There was an odd freedom, he felt then, in letting a dream go. It made room for others. And he was still plenty young enough to find that thought exciting. He didn’t believe in destiny, divine or natural. He had never entertained the idea that there was someone special out there, and their paths would magically intersect and they’d sooner or later fall in love. He ascribed to the belief that there were plenty of someones out there, and a good fit would found. If one looked. Some day, when he was ready, he’d get around to exploring the field. He should probably let Laura set him up with one of her colleagues. She certainly offered often enough. And then, of course, there were always the Internet dating sites. The thought of it was enough to make him hope that a benevolent God would protect him from that.

Just then, something – who knew what – made Hathaway look across the courtyard. There he was at the far table, this kid with black, curly hair and hunched shoulders, staring at him. Big, dark-fringed eyes, in a heart-shaped face. The expression on his face held far more than a mere glance could possibly interpret.

The boy was, in a word, enchanting. Loath as Hathaway was to ever use that word to describe someone he might want to buy a drink for.

Hathaway rolled his head back towards the sun, a small smile on his face. 

He might not believe in destiny, but he didn’t scoff at serendipity.


	3. Chapter 3

Kent struggled to keep up with Hathaway’s long, loping stride as they crossed the car park. The blond man was unlocking the passenger side door with the key, which seemed strange to Kent when surely the remote would have done the –

Without warning, Hathaway was in front of him, leaning him against the side of the car and lowering his mouth to Kent’s. Gentle, feather light, with a hint of a tug on Kent’s lower lip. When Hathaway pulled away, Kent fell forward a fraction, following that mouth, not wanting to break contact quite yet. But it was done and they were just standing there, toe to toe. His eyes, wide with surprise and something more, climbed until they met Hathaway’s, slitted against the sun.

“Just so you don’t mistake my intentions,” Hathaway said simply. The corners of his wide mouth curled upwards the tiniest bit. 

No, there was no mistaking the promise that kiss held.

Then Kent was sliding into the passenger seat, buckling himself in, and counting his heartbeats. 

On the street, Hathaway filled the silence by pointing out a landmark here, the site of an historical event there. Kent wasn’t as interested in the information as he was the voice that was delivering it. So fucking sexy, it made Kent squirm in his seat.

He recalled that mouth descending on his. How had he ever thought those lips were thin, or that they would be hard? They were plenty full, and soft. 

A street sign was coming up. The train station, it informed, was point-four miles down the upcoming street to the left. He felt Hathaway’s eyes on him, watching him watch the sign go by. Probably wondering if he should slow down, flip the blinker switch, prepare to turn.

Kent released his grip on the strap of his seat belt, and let his hand fall over Hathaway’s where it rested on the knob of the gear shift. His way of saying, _Just so you don’t mistake my intentions._ Hathaway replied by letting his fingers spread a bit, allowing Kent to slot his in between. Hathaway seemed to have lost interest in the tour monologue; they drove the next few blocks in silence. Kent concentrated on the warmth of the hand under his, the smoothness of the skin. Then they were pulling up to a curb in front of a sandwich shop.

“We’ll need food.”

Kent looked at him, blinking once or twice.

“Or, well, I’m hungry. Any preferences? Are you a vegetarian or anything?”

“Anything’s fine. Something light, I guess. Whatever.”

***  
Kent watched Hathaway cross the pavement to the shop’s entrance. The man could cover a lot of ground in just three steps, with his long legs and loose gait. So different from –

But he didn’t want to think about Chandler right now. He wanted to think about what would happen when they reached Hathaway’s door. Would it be like one friend visiting another, all come-in-and-make-yourself-comfortable? Or would Hathaway drop the bags of food on the floor and grab him up, pin him to the wall, press their bodies together, kiss him hard and long…

He felt a hot twinge throughout his lower abdomen at the thought. Yes, he definitely would not mind if that was what happened. Or if Hathaway took him by the hand and led him up a staircase to a cool, dark bedroom with a wide bed… 

Now Kent just laughed at himself. Fun to think about, sure, but rather sappy and silly. Not that he doubted Hathaway’s ability to make it anything but wonderful. What with those heavy-lidded eyes, and that incredible mouth. Kent's heart lurched, picturing the cool and cerebral Hathaway give over to sensuality and physical need.

Kent stopped himself before he pictured any scene too vividly. Soon enough, he hoped, he hoped to be experiencing it, not just imagining it. He tried to think of a neutral topic. Sandwiches. The probable color of the walls in Hathaway’s flat. Whether the place would be cluttered, or clean and ordered. 

Which, unfortunately, brought up more thoughts of Chandler. Kent felt a pang of guilt. Why did he suddenly feel unfaithful, as if he were a cheating partner? Chandler had never asked him to come home with him. He’d never given Kent _any_ indication that there was anything but professional regard between them. In fact, recently the D.I. seemed distant, more prone to criticize Kent, and less generous with praise for his efforts. 

He had the sudden urge to check his phone for messages. He’d left London without actually telling Chandler or Miles, his D.S., that he was taking a few days off. Not against policy, exactly – he had filled out all of the proper forms online before leaving, and waited for approval before heading out of the city. Still, he should have at least left a voice message…

There was nothing from Chandler. No text or voice message, no alert that he'd missed a call. Why did he feel hurt, when he should feel relieved? 

*** 

At the front door of the flat, Hathaway shifted the bags of food and drink around to work the key in the lock. Standing behind him, Kent was tense with anticipation. In the next moment they would be going through the door, and whatever was going to happen would happen...

Then he had to go and open his mouth. “Nice neighborhood,” he said. A perfectly normal comment, under the circumstances. It was what one said when visiting a friend's home for the first time. Dammit.

There was Hathaway, holding the door open for him, playing the part of perfect host. “Come in and make yourself at home.”

Dammit. 

*** 

The flat was clean, done in white, mostly modern. Everything in its place, it seemed, except a few books in a haphazard stack on the coffee table. That made him happy, that small sign that Hathaway was not OCD. That he was not like Chandler.

There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke, which surprised him. Was Hathaway a smoker? Not that he minded. That actually made him happy, too.


	4. Chapter 4

“You play chess…” It was naturally one of the first things Emerson would notice in his flat, the chessboard that had pride of place on the dining table.

“I do.” James watched him from the doorway.

Emerson fingered a piece or two, carefully replacing each in its exact position. “It’s quite an impressive board. Big...” 

James gave a short laugh. “I suppose some would think I’m compensating for… something.”

“Sorry, what?” Emerson had moved on to the artwork on the walls and shelves.

“Nothing. Would you like something to drink? I have bottled beer, and maybe some wine somewhere…” 

“Yes, whatever is fine. Or just water. Or juice. Anything…”

James rummaged through the fridge and cupboards, wondering what to serve his guest. _Whatever_ was a singularly unhelpful word, as was _anything._ He found a forgotten bottle of white in the fridge and worked to get it uncorked. It went onto the tray with the sandwiches. Then glasses, plates, cutlery, and an apple for good measure. He carried the tray into the other room and set it on the coffee table, then took a seat on the end of the sofa. “Dinner, such as it is, is served,” he announced.

“Right, yes…” Then, to James’ surprise, Emerson sat, not next to him on the sofa, but on the floor at the end of the coffee table. He sort of folded his legs under him and took a plate from the tray, then asked where James had gotten his Gibson. 

As they talked about guitars, James wondered how he allowed that to happen – Emerson way over there, and him on the sofa – and how he had not anticipated that as a possibility. He should have sat in the center of the sofa. That way, maybe Emerson would have taken one or the other sides. Yes, that was a bad move on his part. 

Ignoring the sandwich, Emerson took the apple, sliced off a chunk, and nibbled at it. He was describing with enthusiasm the old Stratocaster he’d found at a consignment shop on Denmark Street, and his plans to customize it. He was relaxed and animated, his hazel eyes shining and deep dimples occasionally flashing. James forgot about his hunger, and just watched Emerson talk and eat. 

He saw a bit of juice from the apple glisten on Emerson’s lower lip.

James wanted to lick that bit of apple juice from that lip. 

Then Emerson licked it off himself, with a drag of his tongue. And James very much wanted to find out how that tongue felt against his. He reached for the box of cigarettes on the end table, lit one and inhaled deeply. He was trying to quit, but always found smoking to be a great distraction.

Emerson didn’t seem to mind the smoke. He kept talking unselfconsciously while he lifted the top bun of his sandwich and removed the rings of fresh onion with the tip of a knife. When he noticed James watching him, he blushed and carefully set the bun back on top of the remaining filling. “I just… I mean, onion’s great, but..”

James tipped his head back and blew smoke at the ceiling. The kid was absolutely adorable.

Now Emerson went silent, cutting the sandwich in half, slowly and with more concentration than would ever be necessary for the task. 

James jumped up and crossed to the stereo. “I’m going to put on some music. Any preferences?”

“No, whatever’s fine.”

Again, not helpful at all. James flipped through some CD’s, then turned back to his guest. “I know you appreciate all kinds of music, but what do you feel like listening to now?” He hoped he didn’t sound impatient. The frustration he felt had nothing whatsoever to do with music, after all.

Perhaps Emerson sensed that he could make a bit of an effort, then. “You’ve got a great collection of vinyl,” he said. “I don’t even have a turntable. I quite like the scratchiness of the needle. You can’t get that with digital. It’s sort of a warm, nostalgic sound, don't you think...” His voice faded away, self-conscious under James’ gaze. 

James, for his part, rather felt that he might just be falling in love.

Emerson finally asked that James just play whatever album was on the turntable right now. “I’d like to hear whatever you were listening to last..” And he was blushing again.

James cued it up, and soon the flat was filled with Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. All rich tones and echoes and, yes, a bit of scratchiness. He sort of wished that the album had been something a little less predictable, a little more interesting, no matter that it was one of his favorites. Then he saw Emerson’s expression and knew better than to say anything at all.

He wound back around to the sofa – sitting smack in the middle this time – and debated lighting another cigarette. 

Then Emerson said softly, his words barely rising above the music, “That’s what your voice sounds like.”

“I’m sorry?” Now James was the one staring and blinking.

Emerson held his eyes. “It’s like your voice, the cello. Deep. Resonant. Beautiful…” 

That snapped James’ last bit of restraint. Groaning, he lurched up, gathered Emerson up, lifted him to the sofa. Pressed him back against the deeply cushioned armrest. Dropped down onto him, and brushed his mouth over Emerson's jaw. His last conscious thought - that he should at least _try_ to be gentle - was driven way by Emerson's small moan against his cheek. Then he was lost in the novel sensation of this man's lips against his, and the dance of their tongues, and fingers curling around his neck.

Emerson tasted sweet like apple, and felt like a dream.


	5. Chapter 5

James Hathaway, normally so cerebral, now had no mental faculties working. There was nothing but sensation in this surreal dream, nothing but the warmth of Emerson’s skin, the taste of his lips, the sound of his little whimpers, the grip of his fingers on James’ shoulders. James couldn’t get enough; he pressed in harder, overcome by the need for more.

Then Emerson twisted his face to the side enough to free his mouth, drawing in air in quick, panting gulps. James, also struggling to catch his breath, rested his cheekbone against Emerson’s for a moment, then jerked back, eyes wide in delayed shock. Emerson looked somewhat abused, lips a bit swollen and a pink flush staining his cheeks, but his eyes, as they fluttered open, told him that he had no complaints.

“Oh, god. I’m sorry.” Chuckling self-consciously, James slid to his knees and let his head drop to Emerson’s chest. He was stunned by his own lack of control, not so much appalled as simply astonished. “I don’t know what –”

His apology was interrupted by hands lifting his face, and lips covering his own. Unlike James’ voracious onslaught, Emerson’s kiss was tentative and tender. A barely-there brush of lips, a gentle flick of a tongue tip against his own, a nibble at the fullness of his lower lip. James’ his eyes fell closed and he let the sensations overtake him again, while Emerson's lips surveyed the contours of his face, over his brow, cheekbones, jawline. Still cupping James’ head, Emerson traced the cleft in his chin with a light tongue, and did the same to the scar on his jaw. James had no idea those two spots were erogenous; now the whimpers he heard were coming from himself. 

Just as Emerson brought their mouths together again, James realized that he liked this man. A lot. Completely smitten, he was. He also knew that this was not going to be a pleasant holiday fling. Then he concluded that there was a high probability – a near certainty, really – that he was about to fuck it all up. 

Yes, his old, familiar fatalism had returned, and he knew that he was not going to be able to go through with this.

*** 

Emerson had never been kissed. Certainly not like this. One moment he was sitting comfortably on the floor, commenting on the music; the next moment James was tossing him on the sofa and crushing him against the cushions in a hungry, desperate kiss. Nothing in his previous experience could prepare him for this, but luckily his body seemed to know what to do. Instinctively, his hands found the back of James’ neck, his lips parted at the right moment, his heart pumped all on its own. Fast and erratic, yes, but still doing its job.

He only broke away when breathing became a necessity. And now he was quite proud of himself for actually kissing James back. He’d been waiting for James to make the moves, but hey, he could do this, too. It was just a kiss, after all. Neither one seemed to need to make it more. Yet.

Then the music stopped. 

*** 

James didn't immediately notice that Emerson had gone still, and was no longer kissing him. He slowly pulled away and opened his eyes.

Emerson was looking up at him, a smile taking over his mouth. 

It took James a few seconds to isolate the problem. There was no music. The only sound coming from the speakers was the scratch of the needle against the center label of the LP. He had no idea how long ago the side had finished.

Emerson’s dimples deepened. “You really ought to…” 

“…save the needle, yes.” Reluctantly, James sat up, but not before leaving one last quick kiss on Emerson’s lips. Muttering that it had no right to call itself a long-playing record, he crossed to the stereo and stowed the arm on its cradle. “Now, let’s hear what you were listening to last. Assuming you travel with an iPod or some such.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Emerson scrambled across the room while pulling up his playlist on the tiny device, and a moment later had it plugged in and playing. 

James stood close behind him, his arms wrapped around the smaller man’s waist. He hoped Emerson didn’t feel that he was being crowded, because it was hard for James to keep from touching him. He thought he should at least offer to show his guest some of Oxford’s nightlife. “Would you like to go out tonight? To a pub? Or clubbing?”

“If you want to,” Emerson said politely.

“I’m asking what you want to do.”

“This is nice.” Emerson leaned back against James’ chest. 

“Good answer,” James growled and kissed the crown of Emerson’s head.

On the wall over the stereo was a framed photo that Emerson seemed to find interesting. “Is that your D.I., then?” 

“Lewis. Yes.” With fresh eyes, he looked at the deeply lined face, with its crooked smile and kind eyes. James himself was in the background, his eyes on his boss. The picture was taken at a media conference after a good result on a case.

“You’re… fond of him.”

“I am,” James answered simply. He waited for a follow-up questions, but none came. 

For the next ten minutes or so, the boys took care of practical matters. They used the loo, changed out of their street clothes (Emerson looking quite adorable in borrowed long-sleeve tee and Nike warm-ups, rolled up at the wrist and ankle), and finished their sandwiches (sans onion). James poured the last of the wine into Emerson’s glass, and thought that maybe he wouldn’t mess this up after all. 

They settled sideways against the cushions, facing each other, with Emerson’s knees resting on James’ calf. They went back to talking. Or rather, Emerson talked and James listened. Music, books, movies, travel, and inevitably back to music every time a new band started playing over the speakers. James enjoyed Emerson’s critiques. They were descriptive and upbeat, not cold and analytical. So this is what it’s like, James thought, to be with someone who makes the world seem less bleak and more positive. So this is why Lewis told him to get someone in his life.

Then Emerson looked over his shoulder to the picture on the wall. He took a deep breath, then asked, “So, can I assume that you’re not… involved with anyone at the moment?”

“Oh,” said James. He wondered if this elephant had been in the room the whole time. “Yes. Yes, you can assume that.”

“Good.” Emerson looked at James with some relief, then blushed. “I mean, it would be awkward if… Not that I want to pry, or anything, but…”

“Under the circumstances, it’s not outrageous of you to ask.” James didn’t go into detail about his feelings for Lewis. He still loved him, but over the past three weeks, he’d tried to transform those feelings from _eros_ to _philos._ Over the past few hours, he’d confirmed that the transformation was complete. 

“I’m not, either, in case you were wondering.”

James wasn’t, actually. Somehow he just believed that Emerson would not have come home with him if he were in a relationship. He just didn’t seem the type to, well, cheat. James knew this was perhaps naïve for a detective, but his cynicism simply wasn’t being triggered by Emerson. “No one waiting in the wings?”

Emerson hesitated a tell-tale moment, then sighed. “No.”

“No?” James tried to remain nonchalant, but it wasn’t easy now that Emerson’s face had taken on that slightly haunted look it had had when he’d first laid eyes on him at the pub.

“Well,” Emerson said now, “I guess I am sort of getting over some… some…”

“Someone?” James prompted.

“Some _thing,_ more like.” Emerson’s brow furrowed, like he was working out a puzzle. Then he crooked his mouth to one side for a moment before saying, “I know this will sound stupid, but…”

“Try me,” James encouraged him.

“Well, I think I’m starting to figure out the difference between a crush, and,” he paused, then shrugged, as if decided now was not the time to be cautious, “and genuinely getting to know someone that you might want to really get to know and get close to and now this proves that I was right, it does sound stupid.”

James chuckled. “Anything but, I promise you. There are few things in life more important than this.” He jiggled their legs up and down a couple of times reassuringly.

“It’s just, I’m not…” Emerson sighed again, and looked up at the ceiling. “Not what you’d call experienced in these things. There’s never really been anyone. I guess I was just maybe… waiting. Or something. I don’t know.”

“So, we’ve established that we’re neither of us players, then...” He squeezed Emerson’s knee. “Or am I best off just speaking for myself?”

“No, you can include me in that, too. I thought I could, actually, with you, today, you know, let myself get picked up, go off and have some safe, simple fun, and then return home with the memories as a souvenir.”

“And?” James thought there might be more to it.

“And, get over this other thing.” Emerson ducked his head. “I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear all this, not when we could just –”

“So this crush, then,” James broke in, “Is it someone you work with? Someone you have to face regularly?”

Emerson nodded. Then nodded again, but didn’t say anything.

“And he knows?”

Emerson sagged a bit, his shoulders hunching. “I don’t know. Possibly. Probably. But it didn’t actually matter at all.”

James understood this to mean that the other party – likely a superior of some sort – had kept things professional between them. He couldn’t tell Emerson that he knew exactly what he was going through, and yet he empathized. In his case, he’d always known that no matter what happened, he could trust Lewis to deal with it in the best way. Maybe Emerson hadn’t had that luxury. Maybe there was real hurt here.

James saw two paths ahead. Down one path, he would show that he was compassionate, and ask suitably sympathetic questions, and offer to listen, and give soothing feedback.

He chose the other path.

“Well,” said James, “let’s see him, then.”

“Whaaat?” Emerson’s mouth gaped a bit, and his eyes went wide. Adorably so.

“Come on,” James cajoled, “you must have a picture of him with you.”

“Well, maybe, but –” He looked as if that were the last thing he wanted to do. “Why would you do that?”

“Maybe I want to see my competition.”

Emerson scanned James’ face, and held his breath.

“It’s only fair,” James said. He smiled and gave a nod towards the wall behind him. “I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours.” 

*** 

“But…” Why in the world would he want to see a picture of Chandler? Emerson didn’t know what to make of it.

“You’ll have to face the fact, Emerson, that I can log into the national database and look at profiles of anyone in your department.” 

He scanned James’ face for a hint of what the man was thinking. And there it was, the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You wouldn’t,” Emerson sputtered, and let a laugh bubble up. _“You wouldn’t!”_

“In fact,” said James heartily, “that sounds like fun. It’ll be like a game – Who Did Kent Fancy?”

Emerson groaned. “Fine, I’ll –”

“No, no,” James said, starting to slide out from under Emerson’s leg, “just let me grab my lap-top, and dig out my password token, which come to think of it, I haven’t seen since this morning. Oh, and I’ll need my phone, because someone from the station will probably call me to verify my identity before letting me log in…”

Emerson, unable to hold back, burst out laughing and pushed James back down next to him on the cushions. “Stop it!” He reached down for his bag, and slipped his smartphone from a side pocket. He poked the screen a few times, then thrust the phone at James. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

“Just get it over with.” He’d selected a photo of eight or so people, all wearing suits, standing in front of a white board with that said only, “Case Closed!” in block red letters. Emerson was towards the end of the second row. 

“Strange,” muttered James as he peered at the screen. “You’re actually taller than most of your colleagues…”

“Not like you suffer from height snobbery or anything,” Emerson said.

James ignored this. “What’ll you bet me that I get it right in one?” He was fiddling with the app’s controls.

“Oh, God!” Emerson flung himself back on the cushions. “I can’t believe you're asking me to make a wager on this.”

“True, it is a bit beyond the pale,” James drawled. “So what are we betting, then?”

Emerson pulled himself upright and lurched for the phone. “Give me it back.”

James wrapped his free arm around Emerson’s struggling body and held him close, while holding the phone out of reach in his other. He continued to study the small screen. “Hmm, this one’s nice. Pudgy cheeks. Round, sincere eyes. Is he your type, I wonder…”

It could only be Buchan. Laughing now, and struggling less, Emerson hid his face in James’ shoulder. “Please…!”

“Or, hmm, the older man, maybe? Grim set to his mouth, but a certain twinkle to his eyes.”

That had to be D.S. Miles. “What makes you think it’s a man?” he demanded.

James ignore this as well. “This is the one.” He held the phone up to Emerson’s nose. The face on the screen was, of course, Joseph Chandler.

Emerson looked at the image, and saw a handsome man. An inspiring leader. A good boss. What he didn’t see was the object of his obsession. Nor did he feel the dark hopelessness that usually came when he flipped through the pics of Chandler.

“Hmmm, yes,” James was saying, “I can see what all the fuss is about.”

Emerson’s cheeks went hot. He hated to think that James would mock him. It would be sad, because over the course of the afternoon and into the evening, James had proved to be so generous and good-hearted…

“I guess I shall have to double my efforts to win you over,” James said then. No mockery. None. Complete absence of same, in fact. There was some teasing in his voice, but no meanness.

“Is that so?” Emerson felt a bit light-headed.

“Mmmm.” James studied the pic again. “He’s handsome, I’ll give him that. Beautiful, even.”

Beautiful? James was his new definition of beautiful. “I suppose he is. But that’s not—”

“Nice build, too. Hand-made suit, surely. Lord only knows how much that must’ve cost. How many of them does he have? Look at that. Even his hair is perfect. I may have to triple my efforts.”

“Whatever. Just let me know when you’ve finished,” Emerson said, his laugh muffled against James’ chest. He both heard and felt James sigh, and suddenly felt guilty. “I’m sorry… We were having such a lovely time, and I had to spoil it by bringing all this up?”

“Chances were good it would come up sooner or later.”

“But if ‘later,’ I might have figured out what it was,” Emerson protested.

“You said it was a crush. You liked him. For whatever reason, it didn’t become a relationship.”

“Sounds simple when you say it, sure.” Emerson felt his throat go tight.

“Did you have a lot in common?” James reached for his box of cigarettes, and took his time lighting one.

“I don’t know…” _Christ, I don’t even know!_ This was a damning admission, and he hated to have to face it. 

“So…” 

“So, I admire him, yeah? He’s clever and committed and honorable.” Had he ever put it in words before? It didn’t sound like he was describing a love interest, really. 

James didn’t say anything, just took a deep drag.

“He’s somehow noble. And that you won’t find among anyone else in our nick. I am lucky to work for him, and want him to do well. I don’t want him to leave Whitechapel.” He knew he sounded horribly sincere. But that was, he realized, the sum of his feelings.

“So, crush slash hero worship. There’s nothing wrong with that,” James said solemnly. “And if there’s more beyond that, well…” He left the thought unfinished.

Emerson lifted his head, and looked at James, blinking rapidly. 

Then a smile flickered over one corner of James' mouth. “I do consider that I have one distinct advantage over him.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re here in Oxford with me, and not in London with him.” 

For Emerson, there was no question where he wanted to be, and with whom. “If I told you that there really is nothing beyond the crush slash hero worship, would you believe me? And let us go back to where we were before I brought all this up?”

“We can’t go back,” James said as he drew a knuckle along Emerson’s jaw. “And no need to. We’ll just continue forward.”

Emerson tilted his head into James’ caress. “That’s fine with me.”

“But,” James said, “I have to tell you my intentions have changed somewhat.”

Emerson tensed. “Oh? How’s that?”

“Well,” James said in a low growl, “I brought you here with the implicit promise of sex—”

Emerson couldn’t help the tremor that ran through his body.

“—but I’m afraid that a one-off, or a holiday fling, has lost its appeal. I guess I’m no longer drunk and reckless.”

Emerson’s heart fell like a skydiver without a chute. He turned away to hide his disappointment. He was right to be honest with James, but had to accept the resulting losses.

James crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. “Instead, I’m thinking that…”

As much as he feared knowing what James was thinking, he had to know. “Yes?”

“That we consider this our first date, during which we got to first base, which is pretty good, considering my batting average. Not to stretch the metaphor or anything…”

Smiling in spite of his apprehension, Emerson looked back at James, searching his face. “And?”

James met his gaze with measured hopefulness. “And we could have our second date tomorrow. Breakfast, right here in this living room.” 

“And then?”

“We’ll continue to get to know each other, make sure we like one another. And maybe we’ll see about making it to second base. You know, typical dating sort of stuff.”

Emerson started to breath again. “And then?”

“Well, it just goes on from there, doesn’t it. By the time you have to go back home, and I have to go back to work, we should know if I’ll be spending my next days off down in London, with you as host.”

“Wow,” was all Emerson could say.

“I couldn’t agree more,” James murmured, and wrapped a hand around the back of Emerson’s neck to draw him in for a slow, soft kiss.

“As it happens,” Emerson said, several minute later, “I am free tomorrow for breakfast. Free for the other stuff as well, actually.”

James’ laugh rumbled deep in his chest. Emerson liked the sound of it, and everything else about the man.

Free. Yes, Emerson finally felt free of the angst that had caused him to flee Whitechapel, and was even glad for it now. It had gotten him up here to Oxford, after all, and made all this possible.

And he was glad he'd missed that train to Wales.


End file.
